CHAPTER XVIII
Eva and Locke were seated at a long table in the library of Eva's home. Before them were many ledgers of International Patents, Incorporated. Eva was reading certain entries in the books, while Locke was making notes to be used at the coming directors' meeting.
Eva closed the ledger from which she had been reading and announced, "I intend, at the meeting, to insist that the patents held in the Graveyard of Genius be released to the world."
"It is the only honorable thing to do," agreed Locke. "You will undoubtedly meet with violent opposition from Balcom and some few who owe their fortunes to him, but in the end you will win."
"If we could only have found the antidote," sighed Eva, "and my father could only be again in control of things."
"All we can do is to act as we think he would have acted if he were in control," soothed Locke.
"May I speak to you a moment, Mr. Locke?" interrupted a voice.
It was Zita who had entered noiselessly and now stood well within the room.
How long had she been there? How much had she overheard? Both Eva and Quentin exchanged worried glances.
Locke rose and went over to Zita, who spoke to him in a whispered undertone.
The matter was so trivial that it hardly warranted her intrusion. Locke was puzzled. But he was a man and, therefore, did not understand. For, as Zita continued, there was a world of longing in her eyes. She even went so far as to finger the lapel of his coat.
Eva understood only too well, and her face crimsoned. She bit her lips, and in vexation at Zita her finger-nails pressed into her palms. Paul's entrance at this moment was a distinct relief, much as she despised the man.
"What's all the fuss about?" he inquired.
Paul had a gaiety of manner that he could slip on like a coat, and it was this quality that made him dangerous. He was popular and attractive.
Paul took Eva's hand and managed to hold it just the fraction of a second longer than was necessary to convey friendship. Then Eva withdrew her hand, but not before Locke saw it and scowled.
It was not long before the elder Balcom also arrived.
"Good afternoon, my children," he greeted, jovially. "I'm just a bit ahead of time, I imagine. But why you children don't leave dry matters of business to us older heads I'm blessed if I know."
"Mr. Balcom," retorted Eva, keenly, "the older head that would protect my interests and the interests of those poor inventors lies stricken, as you know, in the room above. In his absence the children, as you are pleased to call us, will do their best."
Balcom glared, while Zita with a strange glance toward Eva left Locke and joined Balcom in a far corner of the room.
"Zita," Balcom whispered, "the time has arrived to take you out of this false position."
Zita trembled with suppressed excitement as she heard this, and followed Balcom back toward the table, where the others were already seating themselves.
It was approaching the hour, when Eva rose and was about to speak. Balcom motioned and stopped her with a gesture.
"One moment, please, Miss Brent," he interrupted. "Before the others arrive I am going to establish Zita's real position in this house."
All at the table looked at one another in openly expressed astonishment. Zita, with eyes cast down, hands clasped in her lap, seemed almost demure, though about her mouth played a faint smile.
Even Paul did not understand this phase of the conspiracy and looked at his father as much as to say, "I wonder what the old man is up to now?"
Locke was the first to recover his coolness. "Just what, Mr. Balcom, do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean—" began Balcom, then stopped. "But first I will produce a witness who can vouch for all the facts which I am about to relate."
Balcom went to the door and opened it. There, bobbing her head and smirking mechanically, stood that loathsome creature, Old Meg. In these rich surroundings her frightful squalor was all the more accentuated. Those at the table drew back in utter disgust as she tottered into the room. As she passed Zita she paused.
"I held you in these arms when you were but a wee baby," she muttered, hideously.
Zita drew away from her and looked at Balcom questioningly. Balcom now leaned far over the table and spoke impressively.
"Twenty years ago Brent was secretly married to his secretary. There was a child. But Brent craved money, and power that the money would bring. Saddled with a wife and child, he was barred from his ambition, which was to marry some rich woman. So he made a hell on earth for his wife until, in desperation, she consented to an annulment of their marriage."
The room was breathlessly quiet as Balcom continued.
"Years passed and then his conscience smote him. He made his own child his secretary." Then he turned to Zita, pointing at her. "There she sits," he exclaimed, "and half of the voting power of this company belongs to her—Zita Brent, Zita Dane Brent."
Instantly Locke was on his feet.
"Balcom, you lie!" he rasped.
"Lie or no lie," retorted Balcom, "as vice-president of the company I refuse to permit any action to be taken until Zita's position is legally established."
Locke turned to Eva. "Miss Brent," he asked, with a bow, "may I speak for you?"
Eva nodded.
"Then, Balcom," remarked Locke, "we shall carry the proposed motion over your head. You cannot produce sufficient proofs to retard our action."
"My protests," sneered Balcom, as he strode toward the door, "will be entered in the minutes of this meeting."
Zita, in the excitement, had already disappeared. Paul bowed to Eva and Locke mockingly and followed his father.
Old Meg squeezed herself against the walls of the library and was trying to get out of the room without being detected. But Locke was too alert for her and caught her by the shoulder, detaining her. She tried to fight him off with her feeble arms. Again and again he tried to question her.
"The story is true, I tell you, gospel true," Meg repeated over and over again.
Locke let her go and she started toward the door. Then the habit of a lifetime overcame her and she turned.
"If you would know the truth, my pretty," she croaked at Eva, "come to Old Meg." Then she hobbled out.
Eva was naturally perturbed, although Locke tried to comfort her. Yet she could not forget what had happened between him and Zita just before the meeting, and, woman-like, she now held aloof.
"Eva," pleaded Locke, "won't you trust me? Things are in such a critical state that we must not have any misunderstanding."
But Eva merely tossed her pretty head. "I don't care for Zita or her actions," she replied, petulantly.
Locke diplomatically changed the subject. "I believe," he said, slowly, "that that old hag is in the pay of either Paul or his father, and I mean to find out which it is."
Locke had started across the hallway when Eva called him back.
"Quentin," she said, earnestly, "I trust you—absolutely." Then she hid her face in her hands and almost ran into the dining-room.
Had she been a moment sooner she would have caught that mysterious person, Doctor Q, who had entered the house some time before, and, on overhearing heated words coming from the library, had remained with his ear glued to the keyhole, absorbing every word that was said until Balcom left. But he had shuffled away before she ran in.
Back in Old Meg's den some time later the little gutter rat who, a few hours before, had brought the two thugs back to Balcom and Old Meg was coiled up in a corner, asleep.
With light footsteps that did not awaken the sleeping boy, a strange little figure now came scurrying down the brick stairs. The figure hesitated a moment, then entered the foul den.
In tatters, like the sleeping street gamin, this other boy still had something winsome, something elusively handsome, about him, a certain refinement of features. However, a black patch over one eye showed that this gamin was manly enough, evidently, when it came to fighting. He stirred the sleeping boy with his foot, and the boy, cursing volubly and beyond his years, roused himself.
They talked excitedly in whispers and the boy who had just entered gave the street arab some money. Then together they tiptoed into the other room and down a flight of rickety steps into the cellar. This cellar connected with another cellar of large size that was used as a storehouse.
The boys barely spoke and, when it was necessary, only in whispers. They came to a pile of cotton bales, found a convenient space between the bales, crawled in, and lay still.
Night was coming fast as the hag, trailed by Locke, left Brent Rock. She walked fast for so old a woman, but, finally, coming to a street-car line, she took the first car that came along. Locke had had the foresight to have himself followed by one of the numerous Brent cars and so was able to keep the street-car in sight until the old woman alighted in her squalid quarter of town. Locke got out of his machine and followed her on foot, keeping close to the walls of the buildings to avoid having her see him.
Old Meg turned the corner that ran alongside her dwelling, and there, for the first time, gave an indication that she was aware that she was being followed. She chuckled to herself, gave a few stumbling capers which might have been an imitation of a dance step, then waved her hand. Was it a signal?
Locke was never to reach the alley. Old Meg had whipped around the corner so quickly that for a moment he was puzzled as to just where she had disappeared. He stopped with his back half turned to a flight of stairs leading down to the cellar entrance of a big warehouse. Suddenly he was sent stumbling forward to his knees, half dazed by a treacherous blow dealt from behind.
He was up again in an instant and was defending himself from the attack of half a dozen thugs. He put up a splendid fight, but the odds were too great, and in a few minutes he was down on the ground, unconscious and bound.
The emissaries of the Automaton, for such they were, carried him down the steps and into the warehouse cellar.
Already, on leaving Brent Rock, Paul Balcom had not been idle. He had been immediately driven to a telegraph-office, where, after having used nearly an entire pad of blanks, he succeeded in composing the following message:
Dearest Quentin,—Have proofs that Old Meg spoke the truth. Meet me immediately at her place.
Zita.
The message was addressed to Locke at Brent Rock and was marked "Important."
"That ought to fetch her!" muttered Paul, as he left the office.
Twenty minutes or so later the telegram was delivered to the butler at Brent Rock, who brought it at once to Eva.
At first she was loath to open a message addressed to some one else. But Quentin's affairs and her own were so intertwined by this time that she felt that the telegram would, in all probability, concern her as well as Locke. She tore it open.
"Dearest Quentin," she read and for a minute could get no farther, for it seemed as if a mist had formed before her eyes. She clutched at the balustrade. Then pride, jealousy, and a certain anger surged up within her and she finished reading the telegram.
Eva was in a quandary what to do. She paced up and down the hallway, biting her lips and repressing the tears.
Could it be possible, after all, that Locke was faithless? Was this the man who had been so kind, who had saved her from a thousand dangers? At any rate, she would find out once and for all.
Faint and heart-sick, she gave orders to have her runabout brought around. It was a long drive from Brent Rock, but Eva's fast speedster covered the ground quickly. Twice policemen tried to stop her and, failing, probably took the number of her car. Nothing could deter her. And, as the cool evening wind lashed her face, faith in Locke revived and the suspicion came that she might be rushing into danger. But no thought of herself entered her mind as she stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward. Her single thought was of speed, more speed, to get to Locke quickly.
She was appalled at the squalor of the neighborhood in which she finally found herself. Disgusted and revolted at the filth of Old Meg's abode, still not for an instant did she falter or hesitate. She ran down the steps to Old Meg's home.
The old hag was evidently awaiting her, for this time she did not hide at the sound of approaching footsteps, but came forward, courtesying and mumbling greetings, while her eyes gleamed with a satisfaction that was positively hellish.
"Mr. Locke—where is he?" Eva gasped.
"All in good time, my pretty, all in good time," mumbled the hag. "You're to wait for him here."
But Eva insisted on seeing Locke at once and the old hag lied volubly. He had been here, and had stepped out for a moment. No, she did not know where—to get a cigar, maybe. Would the pretty lady hear her fortune told while she waited?
As there was apparently nothing that she could do until Locke returned, Eva sat at the card-table while Old Meg droned her old fortune-telling rigamarole.
In spite of her growing fear and agitation Eva became interested. There was something calming in the monotonous voice of the old crone.
"When the queen of spades comes between the jack of hearts and the king of diamonds and the—a—the—"
A door directly behind Eva silently and slowly opened. Stealthily a boy's head was thrust out. On the young face was a world of deadly hatred. As the sputtering candle burned brighter for a moment, startlingly, a vague change was noticeable in the lineaments of the features.
It was the same gamin who had given the sleeping boy money. But now, in the candle-light, with only the head showing, it was no boy who glared malevolently at Eva, but a woman—and that woman was the implacable Zita!
The head disappeared to give place to the visages of two horrible-looking men, the same brutes who were present when Balcom had spread the net of his conspiracy.
"When the jack of clubs," droned the witch, "and the—"
With barely a sound the two thugs entered the room behind Eva. In the hand of one was an old gunny sack.
"—and the queen of hearts—"
Eva was so interested now that she leaned far over the table, her eyes fastened on the cards as they fell.
A thug stumbled. Eva, startled, sat back quickly and tried to rise. But the next instant she felt herself struggling in the heavy folds of the grimy gunny sack.
The emissaries, carrying Locke, had staggered with their burden into the warehouse cellar until, coming to a closed door, one of them rapped on it in a peculiar manner that was evidently a signal. An instant, and the door opened.
Through it stalked the Automaton.
The monster gazed intently at Locke as though to determine whether it were indeed he, then waved the emissaries on to the shaft of a huge freight elevator.
In the shaft, directly under the elevator platform, they now cast Locke's unconscious body.
"Are you sure the watchman's still up above?" asked one.
"Sure."
"Then give a ring for the basement."
A thug pressed the button that signaled. In a moment, creaking and groaning, the massive elevator started to descend.
A shuffling of feet was heard and down the stairs leading from Old Meg's quarters came the two thugs carrying Eva. A few feet behind them, still in boy's clothes, was Zita.
The jar to his body as the emissaries threw him on the concrete floor had tended to bring Locke back to consciousness. For a moment he lay still. Then the sound of the descending elevator attracted his attention. He gazed upward and dimly saw the slowly moving platform. In a flash he realized his danger.
Locke struggled fiercely to dislodge his bonds. He contorted his body, expanded his powerful chest in an effort to break the ropes that held him a prisoner.
At this moment the thugs that were carrying Eva passed by, followed by others. Apparently they took no notice of him, but continued on their way with the helpless girl.
Locke, his own danger forgotten, became frantic with apprehension for her and tore savagely at the restraining ropes.
Zita stopped. Her face was a study of conflicting emotions as she saw Locke struggling at the bottom of the shaft.
Floor by floor, inch by inch, the enormous elevator, that would crush out Locke's life as though he were an insect, continued to descend.
Zita stepped to an electric switch. That switch would stop the elevator immediately and save Locke's life.
She raised her hand—and then, looking after the retreating thugs and emissaries, she saw Eva again. Zita's lips formed a cruel line and a flinty hardness came into her eyes.
Her hand dropped.
There were only a few feet between Locke and the descending elevator. Locke was struggling frenziedly to escape and rescue Eva.
Zita's hand went out again and grasped the handle of the switch.
She hesitated, hate on her face.
Would she, for love of Locke, who had not returned her love, save him?
Could she bring herself to save this man—for a woman she hated, who had won him from her?
If she saved him it would be only to lose him to the other woman.
With a great creaking the massive elevator was within only a few short inches of Locke.